


Spruce and Dogwood

by Kanene_Rose



Series: It Does Not Do to Dwell on Dreams [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Eventual Relationships, F/M, Gen, I'm Sorry, Marauders' Era, POV Original Female Character, Tags and Summary Subject to Change, also the title
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-01-20 09:22:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12429795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kanene_Rose/pseuds/Kanene_Rose
Summary: A story of the moon and stars.Phoebe Astraea Lestrange is born to privilege. She could have anything she wanted and she knows this. But everything changes when her parents announce that she is arranged to marry her second cousin, Sirius Black.Marauder's EraSummary sucks, story doesn't :) Also, this is a prequel to Sorcerer's Stone, another fic of mine, but it can definitely be read independently.





	1. The Announcement

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave comments! I love to hear your thoughts!

My mother was a proud woman. She was of average height, but walked with her chin held so high and her back so stiffly straight that she might have passed for a giantess. I never knew her to lack confidence; nor did I ever see her without her husband, my father, who considered himself something of a chaperone. They walked arm-in-arm down the center of the wide and winding halls of the manor, keeping their noses raised as they passed the servants and low-blooded guests. There were only two types of people for which my parents ever bowed their heads: the Ministers for Magic, who would commonly visit the estate during holiday, exclusively par invitation, and pure-blooded members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. 

The Black and Lestrange families held especial prestige in my household. My mother—Orestia Black Lestrange—had been raised on anti-Muggle ideology. Of my parents, she was perhaps the most emphatic in her displays of hatred against those of inferior blood status. She kept the name Black as a sort of badge of honor, with which she could invoke the highest respect from her peers on the basis of purity. 

It was through her that I inherited my dark eyes and delicate curves; her family was known for its agonizing beauty. The greatest gift she ever gave me, in her mind, however, was my pure-bloodedness, which I despised. Not only was I supposedly destined for a life of wealth and beauty, but one that served to propagate a new generation of purity through marriage to someone of equal status. With so few left in the world whose lineage was worthy of my own, this would require a pairing of close relations.

In short, I was arranged to marry my second cousin. 

It was not the greatest revelation for me, who, at eleven years old, was still dreaming of fairytale romances with faraway princes and love ballads punctuated by stolen kisses. It was a time when love was simple and sweet, but so easily desecrated by reality. 

My mother announced my arranged marriage casually while lifting an ornate, silver goblet to her lips.

“I’ve been speaking with your Auntie Walburga about your future,” she said. A pause to take a sip and dab her pursed lips delicately with a cloth napkin. “We’ve discussed your prospects and have decided that you’re to marry her oldest, Sirius. He’s a fine boy.”

“A fine boy,” my father repeated. He sat at the head of the table, as always, in a tailored black jacket with silver cufflinks and an emerald handkercheif. His dark, unruly hair was pulled back handsomely and held at the nape of the neck by a matching green ribbon. “We couldn’t ask for a better match, could we, Orestia? 

“And just your age, too, Phoebe. Starting Hogwarts this year, so long as his letter ever arrives.”

He laughed, long and hard; his voice had once been the thunder of my confidence. At the moment, however, the ease with which he spoke was discomforting. It was as if my future was being sculpted before me, by someone else’s hands, and he was unaffected by such a monolithic revalation. 

“Will it?” I asked.

“He’s a Black.” He meant this to be his answer. Some time passed in silence before he added, “We’ve decided to throw a party in your honor, my lovely little moon, as a sort of going-away event. Both of our families will be there.”

“And Sirius? Will  _ he _ be there?”

“Naturally,” my mother answered. She gave me a piercing look that made me shiver. “Things may change, Phoebe, but we gave your Auntie Walburga and Uncle Orion our word. You  _ do  _ understand what it would mean if we went against our word, do you not?”

“It would disgrace the family name,” I droned. Unlike my parents, I did not buy into the honor and pride of a name, nor the privilege of purity, but it was hard to protest. I was only eleven years old, and the world around me was beginning to expand beyond the depths of my imagination. 

“That’s right. I was speaking with the Minister for Magic yesterday,” she stressed his title with a subtlety I would never learn to replicate, “and he said that we should expect an owl from Minerva by the end of the week. I thought we could plan a trip to Diagon Alley for Sunday to find your school things.

“We absolutely  _ need _ to commission you a new dress while we’re there,” she continued. “You could use a change of wardrobe. It’s been far too long since you’ve worn anything spectacular and it’s getting on my last nerve.”

By  _ spectacular _ , my mother always meant  _ new  _ and  _ expensive _ . She had her own ideas of what counted as fashionable, and things that had been worn more than once were synonymous with rags; no doubt I’d be sent to Hogwarts with more sets of tailored robes than I’d ever need.

“And Sirius?” 

I wanted to know more, to know everything—who he was, what he liked and disliked, why he’d been chosen in this arrangement instead of another Black relative. Did he enjoy reading like I did? Was he handsome? Would he be romantic, like my fairytale princes, or something entirely different, like the uncharismatic and homely villains? Was he passionate in his hatred for both the contradicting privilege and stigma of pure-bloodedness? Or did he buy into our supposed superiority?

Most importantly, however, I wanted to know what he thought of this situation. Was he like me, scared and unsure? Was his world suddenly turned upsidedown?

And though all of this I did consider, all at once, there was very little I actually wanted to find out; it was as if not knowing was the only thing keeping me somewhat sane. I wasn’t certain I was ready to hear the truth about my inevitable future husband. 

“What about him?” my father asked curiously. 

“Nothing,” I sighed. “May I be excused?”

 

Every moment—every decision—is important, big or small, significant or irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. Because our decisions build our character. This night I remember so clearly, not because of the engagement, but because of what I decided to do with this new information: I sat in my bedroom and cried. 

My chamber was one of many in my family’s mansion. It was a large, near-rectangular protrusion on the second story that was strategically placed above an outdoor sitting area; guests would often take their tea outside, in the shade of my bedroom, which was held up by magnificently ornate marble columns. This, I suppose, was done to keep me from spying on the adults while they discussed their business, but still allowed me to look over the garden from the comfort of my own room. If a meeting was running particularly long, my mother would often cajole the other members into taking a stroll through the garden paths, where she could offer me a kind smile and an apologetic wave. In her mind, this was something like inclusion. 

I never complained. I did not want to be a part of any meetings she or my father held with the Black or Lestrange families, nor with the government officials that would visit the manor to discuss my family’s ‘donations’ to the Ministry. I would have much rather spent my time reading my novels in my room, or on the other side of the estate, where a large koi pond ran into a thin-mouthed stream. 

My bedroom had become a safe space for me, with its wall-to-wall mahogany bookshelves on one side, covered in novels and tomes both ancient and new, a large canopy bed, a study desk and chair, and a bench beneath the window, in which I stored many of the things I cherished that should never be exposed too long to sunlight. The wall that faced the garden was curved outward ever so slightly, and was taken up mostly by the window, so that there was very little space in the room that could not be exposed to natural light. Everything that was not wood or metal—the sheets, the canopy, the curtains that hung on either end of the window, the patterned wallpaper,  _ everything _ —was some shade of pale green or white. In comparison to the black, silver, and dark green mansion beyond, my room was a beacon of light. 

It was no surprise that I would find my solace here after the announcement. I buried my face into my pillow and cried for more than an hour until the tears subsided and I was left with nothing but unsteady breaths, red eyes, and wet trail down my cheeks. I sat up and stared at my room, at the things that I had, at the things I thought constituted both my life  _ and _ my own character. 

And it was then that I realized: what I had been given was not what I would become. Sirius Black may or may not prove to be the man I wanted to marry, and if the time came that I chose  _ not _ to go through with the arranged marriage, either my parents would understand and go back on their deal, or I would leave them. I only hoped that, should that time come, I would have the courage to do what was right.

Of course, I was only eleven years old. These thoughts were less eloquent—little more than a rebellious kick that told me not to go through with what others had planned for me. I didn’t understand those hidden emotions the announcement had dredged up, nor did I want to. Not yet.


	2. Diagon Alley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phoebe visits Diagon Alley with her parents and gets a slight scare in Ollivander's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These first two chapters are kind of slow, but not too long. Next chapter should be a bit more exciting!

I was strange, not in my appearance or rebellious attitude, but in my interests. It was not normal for someone my age to study the intricacies of wandlore, nor spend a day doing their best to translate ancient-sounding texts into modern English. My mother always said I was a contradiction: so full of energy, but often able to channel it into activities that required patience and thought. And just as much as I needed the sun and wind and rain, the feeling of natural force and movement against my skin, I also needed time to sit and focus on the written word, through which I experienced much of my childhood.

Several days after my parents announced my engagement to Sirius, I sat in the garden between a patch of pale pink roses and the edge of the koi pond. My favorite book, _Centuries of Wand-Making_ , was laying open on a wooden bench to keep it from getting wet and my left hand trailed through the water, disturbing the yellow-white reflection of the thin clouds above. It was almost an hour like this—silent, my back to the world, one hand in the clouds and the other tracing the edges of the page impatiently—when a single barn owl emerged through the trees. Tied around its leg was a single envelope. I expected him to fly past me to the manor, but he began to descend slowly, circling overhead in a narrowing spiral above the pool. With one final loop, the tips of his wings skimmed the water on either side of his massive body, splashing the underside of his belly; the envelope, I noticed, had been brought up and tucked beneath his tail feathers.

"Hello," I whispered as he came to a stop at the pond's edge. "Is this letter for me?"

He hooted once as I untied the ribbon that held the yellowy parchment to his leg, then again when I patted him on the top of his head, and took off. For a moment, I watched his reflection as he soared above the pond, but I was excited.

 _Miss Phoebe A. Lestrange_ was written in emerald ink on the front, right above the address. On the other side, holding the flap of the envelope to the body, was a wax seal, complete with the Hogwarts School crest: a letter H surrounded by a lion, serpent, badger, and eagle. I gingerly pulled up the seal, careful to preserve it, and tore the letter excitedly from inside.

               

_Dear Miss Lestrange,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

_Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall_

_Deputy Headmistress_

 

My mother and father were busy most days, leaving me at the estate. If you discounted the many servants and house elves roaming the manor, going about their duties, I was completely alone. It wasn't until dinnertime that evening that I was able to share the news with my parents.

"Phoebe, darling?" my father asked. "What is that you have there?"

"It's my letter," I smiled. I sat up in my chair as best I could and reached across our plates. "I got it this morning while I was in the garden. It's signed by McGonagall and everything! Look!"

"I'll never understand why you taught her to idolize Minerva," he chuckled, turning to my mother while he plucked the letter delicately from its envelope.

"She's close to Dumbledore," she answered simply, "and Dumbledore may as well _be_ the Ministry."

"More so than the minister?" he challenged. He raised his eyebrows, causing her to grin and turn to her goblet. They often debated—in jest, of course—who had the better connections in the wizarding world; my father, who retained a high-ranking position in the Ministry, thought that he was the more important figure. My mother vehemently disagreed, saying that her link to Hogwarts not only gave her some standing with Dumbledore, but with the Ministry as well.

"Either way,” he continued, “I believe this is cause for celebration."

We already knew I'd receive my Hogwarts letter—I was a pureblood after all, and one whose skills should have been acknowledged by any wizarding school, especially one so prestigious as Hogwarts, who _should_ want the highest-ranked and most capable students to grace its halls—but my father used any excuse to spoil me. He'd offer something extraordinarily expensive and unnecessary, then I'd counter with an argument for a more practical gift. This usually meant I ended up with a new book for my collection, but even that was a tricky topic. For Christmas one year, he'd gone overboard, buying me a set of rare first-edition storybooks, when I would have been perfectly fine with a newer copy; not only was it less expensive, but I wouldn't feel guilty writing notes in the margins or bending the corners of the pages to mark my spot.

I was a little afraid of what he'd propose for acceptance into Hogwarts. I must have grimaced, too, because my mother asked me what was wrong.

"Nothing," I muttered halfheartedly into my drink. "What were you thinking, daddy?"

He smirked at my mother, who rolled her eyes and dabbed her lips with a napkin.

"Your father and I have been discussing some possible--er-- _rewards_ , and he mentioned how much you'd like to try your hand at Quidditch."

"Could I?!"

She glared at me; it was not polite to shout at the dinner table.

"Could I?" I repeated, calmer. I reclined stiffly into my chair. "I would really love to start flying, if that's okay with you."

"Of course. We'll need to get you a broom first, though, so we can get that done when we visit Diagon Alley for your school things. Just remember," she added, "that you aren't allowed to bring your broomstick to Hogwarts until your second year. One of those strange rules I've never quite understood."

I had never been allowed on a broomstick before; I’d asked for years to start flying, but my mother had always insisted that I was too young. I couldn’t really argue with her. Flying could be dangerous, and neither of my parents were skilled enough to teach a child to stay on their broom properly. They could have hired a teacher, I suppose, but I’d much rather it be them with me than some stranger.

“The party is scheduled for next week,” my father reminded me with a jovial grin. I watched his fingers, which he kept wrapped delicately around the handle of a knife, as he sawed through the thick cut of steak on his plate. He took one small piece and brought it to his lips before saying, “Sirius will be there. Perhaps we should invite him for a friendly game of Quidditch?”

“I don’t even know if we get along yet,” I muttered, sinking further into my chair. “What if I don’t like him?”

There was brief moment of silence before my mother said, her voice indifferent, “You’ll learn to like him.”

               

*              P              *              A             *              L              *

 

“Take a handful, now, Phoebe,” my mother laughed, “don’t be stingy.”

I reached back into the black and gold pot and withdrew so much green powder that it was slipping through the cracks in my fist. I watched as my father tossed his fistful into the roaring fire and bellowed, “Diagon Alley,” then disappeared in a sweep of emerald flame.

“Your turn,” my mother sang.

It was rare to see her in such a happy mood, but I suppose she was excited that I was following in her footsteps. My parents had spent the entire morning discussing Slytherin House and all the reasons why I deserved to be in it; of course, so many people in my family had been Sorted into Slytherin—my mother and father, their siblings, their parents before them, and almost every member of every generation for as long as anyone could remember—that it was something like tradition. At the very least, it was an expectation. The fact that there were three other Houses into which I could possibly be Sorted seemed to have slipped their minds.

I stepped into the hearth, which had been designed to fit a (rather tall) fully-grown adult wizard comfortably, and tossed my Floo powder into the flames. It was warm, entrancing even, and I nearly forgot that I was supposed to give my destination.

“Diagon Alley,” I said, voice timid.

Suddenly, it was like the floor had been taken out from underneath me. A hundred different scenes flashed by as I passed each of the fireplaces connected to the Floo Network between the one in my family’s mansion and the designated hearth in Diagon Alley, where my father stood waiting for me. The moment I saw his sleek, tailored jacket, I stuck my right foot out and stepped onto the cobbled walkway. My mother was not far behind me; she arrived while I was still dusting the soot from my pale green cloak.

“How shall we do this, Phoebe?” my father asked. “Shall your mother and I accompany you to each and every store, or would you rather find your school things all by yourself?”

I thought for a moment, peering up and down the street.

“I think I’ll get my robes first,” I concluded, watching as several students filed out of Madam Malkin’s robe shop. “Mummy wants me to get some new dresses, so we can do that.”

“Get that over with, huh?” he laughed; my mother elbowed him gently in the ribs. “Well, if you two ladies would like to spend the morning together, I think I’ll find something _fun_ to do,” he teased, giving me a little wink. By _‘something fun,’_ I knew he meant he was going to buy me a broomstick that he adored, and since I knew so little about brooms (or flying in general), I decided there was no reason why I should tag along. “We’ll meet at Flourish and Blott’s in, say, an hour?”

“That sounds fine, dear,” my mother answered. It was not proper to kiss in public, but my parents had found their own way of communicating their affection without others’ notice: as my mother began to walk away, her left hand gently brushed his right arm; he grabbed it, squeezed it, and let go so quickly that, had I not been so wont to seeing their distinct displays of emotion, I might have missed it. “Only an hour, Phoebe, so we mustn’t dawdle.”

“But I _like_ dawdling,” I joked, running up to her side.

She let out a disapproving groan, but the corner of her mouth twisted up into a reluctant smirk.

“Just like your father.”

 

Diagon Alley was a long, winding street of extravagant and lively shops. Though I’d been there more times than I could count, every now and again I’d notice a van or store that I’d never seen before. There was far too much too take in at once—the people, the multi-colored robes fanning behind their excited owners, the surprising sound and movement of the small displays that came to life as you passed by, and all the little shops placed here and there between larger, more colorful storefronts.

Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions was _not_ one of the more interesting places to go, but it was where I was headed first, with my mother always one step ahead.

“Hello, Madam Malkin,” my mother said as a middle-aged witch held the door open for us. “It’s been too long.”

“How are you two?” she asked with a smile. “Starting Hogwarts this year, aren’t you, Phoebe?”

“Yes, I am,” I answered.

“And you, Orestia, how are you?”

My mother did _not_ like being addressed by her first name…not unless the person speaking was either a high-ranking official in the Ministry or my father. She was polite enough to not scoff or openly deride Madam Malkin for using it, but that did not mean she didn’t let herself display a small grimace at the sound.

“Fine, Malkin, dear,” she hissed, regaining her friendly composure. “I was wondering if we could have something made for my little Phoebe before she leaves this September. A few new dresses would be marvelous.”

“Along with the required robes, I’m sure,” Malkin reminded her. She led us to the back of the shop, where several stools had been placed in front of an arranged panel of full-length mirrors.

“Oh, of course.”

“Step up, dear,” she requested, “so that I can start your fitting. And, of course, Madam Lestrange, we can get a few dresses made for her, too. What were you hoping for?”

Madam Malkin pulled a tape measure from inside her robes, held it to my shoulder (I had learned by now to keep my arms outstretched, unless instructed otherwise), and let go. The device remained in the air; as the seamstress discussed styles, color, and occasion with my mother, it continued to take my measurements on its own.

“A party, eh?” Malkin winked. “That’s going to be fun. Is it for being accepted into—”

“It’s for an announcement,” my mother interrupted. She pretended to observe her wedding ring. “Phoebe is engaged.”

"This young?"

My mother gave the woman a piercing look. 

"Is that a problem?"

"No, Madam." The older witch kept her eyes to the floor and mumbled, “How nice.”

I did not pay full attention while they discussed the designs; there was little use trying to persuade my mother to change her mind, especially with something so important (to her) as fashion. If I wanted a particular style of dress, I would have to alter it myself, not request it directly at the tailor’s. I heard enough to know, however, that each of the five outfits she commissioned were some combination of pale green, emerald, white, or burgundy. She also preferred that I have nothing with short sleeves, and that the three ‘lay-about’ dresses had no sort of underskirt or ruffles, for which I was secretly grateful.

“Fine colors,” the older witch whispered to me sympathetically out of the corner of her mouth. She turned back to my mother, her arms outstretched, and walked us to the door as a large group of students came sauntering in. “I will call you sometime by the end of the week and you can pick them up by next…let’s say, next Thursday?”

“The party is on Friday,” my mother reminded her, “so it mustn’t be any later. I want to be certain everything fits properly and have time to fix any mistakes before Friday afternoon.”

“Of course, Madam.”

 

My father met us by Flourish and Blott’s; under one arm, he held a long, thin package that could not possibly be anything but a broomstick, and under the other, a large, square box. He was also grinning from ear to ear.

“I said that I’d meet you, and that’s the only reason why I’ve stayed,” he explained, nodding to the packages, “but now I must get these two home. I’ll be back shortly, I promise.”

“What on earth do you think he’s gotten you now?” my mother asked as we watched him practically skip towards the nearest fireplace. “He didn’t tell me you were getting anything but the broom.”

I shrugged my shoulders; it wasn’t unusual for him to surprise either one of us with gifts.

“Well,” she sighed. “I’m off to find your school books. Would you like to head to Ollivander’s on your own?”

My mother knew how excited I was to finally get my own wand; it was the reasonsI had envied by older cousins for years. Witches and wizards were only allowed to use a wand when they were finally accepted into a wizarding school, which meant that each and every one of us—at least, those of us who resided in Europe and attended one of the three schools in the area—had to wait until the summer of their eleventh birthday to finally control their magic. Up until now, I had to make do with what little spurts of uncontrollable magic that seemed to course their way through my body like an extension of my emotion; I had had very little success channeling this into useful spells, though I _had_ finally learned to knock things over with sheer will.

“Thank you, mummy!” I said.

As I made my way to Ollivander’s Wand Shop, I faintly heard her aggravated moan, “Did I say you could run?” But I was too far away to care. The dingy little storefront was just in view as I slowed, taking my time to examine the empty display window: a single wand laid out on a dusty, velvet pillow. The gold pain overhead was chipped and pealing with time, but it had looked the same for as long as I could remember.

Inside, I could see rows of stacks of what must have been thousands of wand boxes, one atop the other, some leaning precariously over the aisle, where the wandmaker himself would stride in and out, reading the labels. The way my father told it, Ollivander had the habit of knowing exactly where every wand was kept, even if there seemed to be no particular rhyme or reason to the stacks.

I took a deep breath, pushed on the door, and poked my head inside. Somewhere in the depths of the shop, a bell rang.

“Hello?” I asked, my voice anxious with undiluted excitement.

There was no response, no footsteps, no sign of the wandmaker or his shopkeepers. But I had the strangest feeling that I was being watched, and the longer I stayed still in the entrance of the shop, the stronger the feeling became. I took one more step inside and waited—it became stronger.

“Hello?”

Again, no response.

I searched through the dim lighting, hoping to spot some wandkeeper about his duties, but there was no one there…and yet, that feeling continued to grow.

 _One more step,_ I found myself thinking. But one more step to what? Was someone there, watching me from the shadows, waiting for me to find my own way through the endless rows of wands?

I took that step, and the feeling grew.

“Hello?” I tried again, though I could hear the obvious waver in my voice. “Is someone there?”

No answer.

Undeterred, I wound through the shop—through the farthest aisle, to the back shelves, around a stack of misplaced boxes—until it disappeared.

“Hello. I thought I heard someone come in,” Ollivander chuckled. “Looks like you found what you were looking for, eh?”

“I found it?” I asked, confused.

I furrowed my brow and tried not to meet the old man’s gaze as he drew nearer, pale blue eyes intense in the dim light. He reached just above my head, gingerly wrapped his fingers around a small, chocolate brown box, and pulled it out of the stack, somehow, without disturbing the rest.

“I wasn’t talking to _you_ , Miss Lestrange.”

"But—But, sir," I stuttered, "There's no one else here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment! And, if you like, leave a Kudos!


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